


"Lannistarth. Roommates - please abstain from any stupid lucubration."

by Zeta_Mei



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (with a bit of porn), Canon age gap but don't mind too much about it, F/M, Fluff, Have I written fluff?, Jaime Lannister in denial, Oblivious Brienne of Tarth, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Roommates, Shameless Smut, So glad it's going to be anon, Stupid and too long discussion about fanfiction, all we need is FLUFF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:49:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29321946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeta_Mei/pseuds/Zeta_Mei
Summary: 'Don't rent a room to a wench who's taller than you and who ships imaginary people', wise men say.A pity that Jaime Lannister, handsome, clever and rich, never listens to anyone. It doesn't matter who's speaking - wise men, the boys or the annoying wench which has sneaked in his lavish flat and took possession of Jaime's own bedroom, of his tub and of his favorite slippers.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister & Brienne of Tarth, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 43
Kudos: 77
Collections: The Exchange that was Promised: Jaime x Brienne Smut Swap 2021





	"Lannistarth. Roommates - please abstain from any stupid lucubration."

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theworldunseen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theworldunseen/gifts).



> First, I have to thank bussdowntarthiana and wildlingoftarth for the chance of partecipating at this exchange - with their help, I'm posting this fic a bit earlier because I need a pit stop of a few days. For Saint Valentine I'll be back home, hopefully, eager to read all your works :) 
> 
> The prompt I've chosen among the fantastic trio proposed by theworldunseen is: "roommates and things just....bubble over." I also kept the traditional age gap (Brienne's 22, Jaime's 35) even if it's a bit uncommon to find people with such a different age sharing a flat, because I think they're not that common and I also think age gap can have a sense, here, to explain Jaime's reluctance to admit his feelings.
> 
> So, to all the people so kind to read this fic: thanks in advance, hope you enjoy!
> 
> To my prompter: I've also begun a one-shot about the beautiful song you suggested (grazie mille, I've heard it once and then lost it, so I've been really glad to find it in your list) but it was a bit dark and, in this period, I need fluff. Hope this fic will make you smile, take care :)

For the third time in less then half-an-hour, Brienne sighs, clutching at her laptop as if it's an instrument of torture. From the kitchen stool where he's perched during his daily fight against the pink donuts the wench buys at Hot Pie's to fund her friend Pod (and Pod's fat partner whose name remains a mystery), Jaime has a good sight of her long legs sprawled on the vintage leather couch, but not a perfect sight of her face.

He can't even read read properly the drawings formed by her freckles, but her skin is flushed - and he'll bet there's a curious glimmering in those big eyes of hers. The last of the giant donuts receives the mercy of a quick death and, carelessly of the crumbs he's sowing here and there to the wench's delight - or, better, to the wench's delight if she'd deign herself to acknowledge his presence - Jaime directs his feline strides to the bookcase, which, by coincidence, is just behind the couch and, always by coincidence, his glance falls on the screen of the laptop that Brienne cradles in her lap.

There only a blank page.

 _Issues with some report of sort. For Prof. Aemon, the most likely,_ Jaime minimizes in his mind, reaching his room to get changed for the weekly drink with the boys. He recalls well Prof. Aemon, he knows the man can be a hard nut to crack, with his “kill your inner child” idiocies, but at least it's no more Renly's ghost to bother her. Nor that other cunt with his plain face and his unforgivable inclination at being too dangerously straight and attracted by tall wenches with less experiences in love than Baelor the Blessed.

“Have a nice evening, Brie,” he says, standing by the door in his half-unbuttoned crimson shirt and his perfectly fitting jeans, all brand-new. “Don't eat too many books, tonight. It seems they're a bit difficult to digest, sometimes.”

She's still parked on the couch, her flaxen hair is messed up and the blue-green light of the screen makes her look even uglier than usual. Not her eyes, thought. Her eyes are always... something, especially when she forgets to frown at him, like now. “Remember you're not used to drink”, she says, daring a smile, and when she smiles that way she's not totally ok, he knows it. Jaime's almost tempted to stay. “Say hello to Addam and the other boys,” she cuts it off, her eyes staring back at the screen.

He nods, and leaves, running down the stairs. He hates the elevator and takes it only when the wench is with him, because she's strong enough to open a passage in the steel with her bare hands and save him, in case of malfunction or earthquake or nuclear dragons attack.

  
  


As he spots Addam waving a hand toward him under the heavy sign of the pub, Jaime finds himself wondering if Addam's face can be considered honest. Addam's handsome, not as handsome as Jaime, but who knows. Wenches are such a weird kind of women.

“ _Hyle has a honest face, Jaime, and I'm surely less attractive than him”,_ Brienne pointed out a few day after that sack of smugness answering to the ridiculous name of Hyle Cunt had entered into their lives, and she wore a dress dramatically short and a scornful glare, with Jaime needing all his patience not to yell at her blatant dumbness. Well, to be sincere, since Jaime isn't surely known for his patience, he might have yelled at her a bit, he confesses to Addam while climbing down the dim stairs leading to the table reserved by Strongboar. However, Jaime still recalls very well how much rude Brienne has been with him in that occasion. Rude and unfair. Her eyes moist and large and blind. That same day Jaime pondered a lot about finding a nicer flat with a nicer roommate, a thing that would surely be easy for a golden man in his thirties with a look and an income as good as his, but, in the end, he couldn't help but stay.

“For Gods' sake, Jaime, obviously you couldn't do nothing else but stay. That's _your_ flat and it took you two years to renovate it,” Addam breaks in, taking a generous sip of a suspicious orange cocktail. “And, if I recall well, you had no intention to rent a room and, mostly, the room with the best view on the river in all the surroundings.”

“On the river and on the sea”, Jaime precises, consoling himself with a smoothie. The memory of his debacle is still bitter. “The fault is Brienne's, not mine. She's so dumb she has took for true a rental announcement any cleverer student would have classified as a joke. Try to imagine, two hundreds dragons for a room with bathroom in Vysenia's Hill, come on.” Lyle laughs so hard he almost chokes on his drink. “But then, what a man can do if a helpless wench knocks at his door with only a filthy backpack?”

“Paying her a taxi?”, Tyrion asks, gesturing for another beer.

“No, I couldn't and I can't leave the wench alone, it'd be immoral,” Jaime tries to explain to the boys. The smoothie is a very good one, the straw is so twisted that it reminds him of Brienne's nose.

“Immoral. Queer choice of terms, I'd say.”

“You know what I mean, Ty.”

“Im-mo-ral,” spells the brother the Gods have inflicted on Jaime, typing on a very costly smartphone and, in the same time, emptying the second or third jug of ale, “Violating accepted moral principles. Also, lascivious, licentious or promiscuous. Interesting.”

“Interesting,” echoes Lyle, red-cheeked, joining Tyrion in a idiotic toast raised with empty jugs.

“She'd be lost without me,” Jaime insists, ignoring the grin on Addam's face. “She's been raised up on a island by an horrible Septa and she's smart, but young, just a good girl of twenty-two in an impressive body.”

“ _Impressive_ enough for anybody, too good and too young for you, that's sure,” Addam comments, sharing a queer look with Ilyn and the others.

“That's not what I've said,” Jaime replies, incinerating Ilyn before the latter can add something with his infamous tongue. It works, the man limits himself to sneer. “The fact is that Brienne is...”

“Good and honorable?” suggests Addam.

“Innocent and shy,” sighs Lyle.

“Brilliant and talented, with gentle, _incredibly gentle_ hands, long legs and _astonishing_ eyes, but you can barely stand her, Jaime, we all know,” insinuates Tyrion.

“...i was saying she's stupid, she's naive and wary at the same time, but not enough wary, considering the mass of assholes crowding the city,” Jaime concludes, standing up and putting enough dragons on the small table to offer the drinks to those wicked drunkards he calls friends. “You're too dazed to be of good company, tonight. Ilyn, it's up to you to get them safe home, ok?”

A choir of grunts and burps doesn't move Jaime from his resolution of going home earlier than usual. He's not vexed by the boys' absurd assumptions, the pub is simply too crowded for his taste, with a very narrow emergency door and he's tired. He has had a very long shopping session in the morning, during which he has be so lucky to meet the happiest couple in Westeros, Renly and Loras, who have felt obliged to help him choosing a ton of clothes and, in the meanwhile, to ask him a hundred questions about his current roommate. Because Brienne's merely a roommate, of course, she pays the monthly rent and her part of the bills, she takes too long baths in the majestic tub Jaime has chosen on the specialized mags _for himself_ , she buys a lot of chocolates and donuts while she blatantly prefers pizza and salty snacks - the kind of annoying person who's always ready to clean or help or cook or quarrel till her last breath for any bullshit that comes out Jaime's mouth.

  
  


The road is practically empty at such an hour, if not for a couple kissing tenderly before a barber shop. Jaime hurries his steps, eager to come back home. Neon lights and old traditional lamps, cobblestones and marbles rush under his shoes, in a mix that is so absurd it can result even charming. He must told Brienne to accompany him, one night, a dinner at the Yitish restaurant she likes so much and, then, together to the pub, to show the boys how much they're absolutely off course about wenches and golden men.

 _About the golden man, he should go running more often_ , Jaime realizes, panting after the fourth flight of stairs, with three still to go. The point is that training with Brienne is funny enough, but it brings some inconveniences that the fitting shorts he usually wears for jogging can't conceal too well and it's embarrassing. Worst than it, it makes Jaime feel a brute, no matter if Brienne may overcome him in strength and agility, probably. He ruminates in front of the bell of their flat.

“Lannistarth”, the little card over the golden bell recites, mockingly. Jaime has never complained, though. The janitor is strong but needs a can to walk. No need to bother a good man for such a little thing, but maybe Jaime should add an explanation, like: “Roommates - please abstain from any stupid lucubration.”

He opens the door carefully, not to awake Brie. She usually goes to bed quite early, because in the morning she has to work or train or go to lessons. Twice a week, no more, she joins Jaime on the couch after dinner, to see a movie or a series together, and she's so quiet and boring that sometimes he falls asleep at her side. Damn her, he has lost at least a couple of Arthur Dayne's fantastic performances for her being such a comfortable pillow.

Smiling, Jaime takes off jacket and sneakers at the entrance but his smile freezes at the unmistakable moans coming, harsh and husky, from the couch.

Jaime's own fucking couch.

Jackets and sneakers ends on the floor with a soft sound, but it's enough for someone too freckled to gasp and peep from behind the big cushions of the sofa.

“You-you shouldn't be here, not so early...” Her voice is strangled, her cheeks red in the half dark.

“Shouldn't I?” The voice isn't steady and sarcastic as he wants it to be, it sounds just angry, a bit puerile.

Another moan fills Jaime's veins with adrenaline and his few working neurons with terrific thoughts about the current lifespan of the coward hiding under the wench's skirt. Not that she's wearing a skirt, actually, only the hideous pajamas a friend has gifted her for Sevenmas, the ones in the shitty caramel nuance that Jaime detests, with a dreadful hoodie, shaped as the smiling face of a sloth.

A sloth. That's incongruous, even for an oaf of a wench.

Jaime blinks, then blinks again, cirling the couch slowly, as a cat on the hunt. Brienne has still her laptop in her hands and the booklet she uses to take notes. Another filthy sound, this time very womanly, comes _from the laptop_ and the wench's chin wobbles as her fingers let the booklet fall to type nervously on the keyboard.

“It's not how it looks”, she says, her chin still wobbling.

Instinctively, Jaime has took a step backward, but not because he's judging her. “Holy shit, Brienne,” he protests, taking two steps towards her, still a bit blocked by that unwelcomed sensation of being a creepy intruder, with no shoes nor dignity, in his own sitting room, “It's just porn, you don't have to justify yourself.”

“No, it isn't porn,” she replies, looking now a bashful bear disguised as a sloth, “well, it is, but not for …fun.” She starts torturing her lips, as if _fun_ were a terrifying option. “I'm just doing researches.”

“Researches, I see.”

Abandoning the laptop to its destiny, Brienne drowns her face in one of the pillow, babbling something unintelligible. The only words Jaime understand are “smut” and “exchange.”

He sits at the girl's side, not knowing if he's only curious or also a bit worried for his queer companion. He's also thrilled, somehow - the entire thing stirring something in him. Maybe he has the shining knight syndrome, as Tyrion often claims, but Tyrion and the boys are wrong, it's simply Brienne who makes him feel so confused, it has never happened with other women. Patting on her knee, Jaime considers briefly about spying in her laptop, just a minute, the time to exclude the involvement of Hyle the Cunt in the affair, but a couple of intense blue eyes resurface from the blue velvet and, all of sudden, the room seems wrapped in blue and suffocating, hot. The couch is ridiculously small for the both of them.

“Ok, Brie, how about going to bed?”, he says in a breath. “Each in his room,” he unfortunately specifies, correcting the shot with a snicker. He doesn't need to look as a sad old flirty man of thirty-five.

Her frown lasts a heartbeat, then she begins to tidy her stuff on the small table before the couch. “You're right. No chance to go on with my fic tonight, and no chance to end it in time for the Dunk&Rohanne Smut Swab, so...”

“The Smut Swab? What's that? Fanfiction?,” he asks, unwisely. He can tell she's getting angry from the way she stiffs inside the one-piece pajamas and puts her long feet in the slippers that once were Jaime's favorite ones.

“You haven't listened to any of the words coming from my mouth.”

“Knock knock, wench, Mr. Jaime Lannister's speaking, your landlord and also, the gorgeous roommate you dream every night.”

“When I have nightmares,” she objects, offering him a hand to get up from the fluffy couch.

“Touché,” he grins, keeping her hand in his to get her full attention. “However, I have the right to get distracted from time to time, like any other old man, it's written in the contract in a very tiny print.”

“You're not that old, Jaime,” she shrugs, and he wonders why she's blushing. He's certain Brienne's blushing, his eyes are now well used to the scarce light and her blush is the only surviving wonder of the world along with her eyes and the half-scortched pyramids of Meeren. “You're just lazy. Sloppy. Often despicable, and vain.”

“Am I to blame if I'm that beautiful?”

“You're just an idiot in a fashionable outfit,” the wench retorts, finally noticing the fruit of his hard work.

Her blush is so evident now that Jaime is tempted to bring his other hand to her brow, to sense if she's getting a fever, but she frees from his hold and starts walking towards the corridor. Even her ass is fucking vexed and no sloth pajamas can conceal its solidity. If Jaime Lannister were a smarter man, he would have let her brooding in peace, and prepared a nice breakfast in the morning with pancakes and honey, the ones she likes a lot, but he's only an idiot, as she has just underlined, and despicable enough to follow the blond bear till the inaccessible sanctuary she uses as her cave.

“Get out of here, Lannister.”

For all answer, he crumbles on the huge bed, taking possession of one of the pillows. “No,” he says, and it takes him a while to formulate the rest of the sentence. “You won't get rid of me until you... tell me how and why you have become addicted to fanfiction.” Her smell impregnates the cotton pillowcase, and, Gods, if it's good. He closes his eyes, ignoring any weird thought and keeping his tone light and teasing, as usual. “I'm listening, wench.”

She snorts, but it's quite a relaxed snort. As confirmation that Brienne's not that angry with Jaime, she lies down at his side. She can't be more than a few inches from him, judging from the unexpected warmth coming from her body, from the sound of her voice, hesitant at first but then passionate, carrying him on the moon and beyond. She's so good in narrating, and he imagines the the glow that's surely enlightening her features as she pours her soul in the endless tale of those Dunk and Rohanne, a knight and a lady, desperately in love and desperately in need of a good talking. A cliché, but Brie does it look so different. So true.

“Are you still awake?”, she whispers, and smiles a crooked smile when he opens his eyes. The moonlit creates a white gold halo around her thick head, for she has curled on one side, her face so close to Jaime's that he feels a bit uneasy. It's been ages since the last time he shared a bed with a girl, but it's only Brienne, the most obstinate and unreasonable wench in all Westeros. His roommate, with so many flaws that a night wouldn't be long enough to list them all - and he's not referring to her appearance, she's ugly but when she smiles she's not that terrible.

“Jaime?” she adds, any mirth gone from her face and voice. She's looking into his eyes and he has no clue of what she's thinking. He feels absurdly compelled to lower his glance and things worsen. Her breast heaves and falls softly under the microfleece, and Jaime is struck by the though she wears nothing under that hideous rag.

Cursing mentally himself for wearing such an painful cage of haute couture denim, Jaime manages to bring out his best smirk. “You know, wench, I can understand why Dunk is such an inept. He's kind and kind people are often inepts, like you. Yet, there's still a thing I really can't get about this Rohanne,” he states with the security of the maximum expert of smut&fluff of the planet. “She's pretty and experienced, since she has been married four times, so why doesn't she kisses him and solve any problem?”

“It's not that easy.” The wench pauses and bites her lip, which is already swollen enough. It doesn't help Jaime to ignore the growing trouble hidden by the jeans.

“Why? I mean, why can't she pulls him in her arms? She wants him, she has just to go and get Dunk the Lunk.”

“Don't call him that way”, she scolds him, blue darts hitting the core of a poor man that hasn't rushed home to be poorly treated by a wench interested only by a foolish giant and his irredeemable lady. “He's a knight, a true knight.”

“A dumb. And Rohanne's dumber.”

“She's not. She's frightened,” Brienne's voice trembles in the night, and hits him like a... _caress._ A burning caress. “She has the right to be frightened. None of her marriages has been happy. She's convinced to have loved a boy, once, a squire, when she was too young to fully understand what love is, and that's all she knows about love. It's hard to recognizes her feelings, that's why she prefers mocking Dunk, flirting with him but always keeping the distance. If only...”

“If only what?”, Jaime urges her, repenting quickly of being uselessly harsh. But his body is beyond his control, his mood is rapidly precipitating in a gorge and this Rohanne is merely the queen of bitches. The fact the wench is eager to defend her is really getting on his nerves.

“If only I could find the way to make Dunk makes the first move. Don't know, maybe he gets angry and grab her by the braid? Wait, don't say a word, I know it's crap. I wouldn't like to be treated like that, would you like me pulling your curls?”

“No,” he snaps, staggered, the scar on his palm itching. Jaime turns as he realizes he has already thought of her fingers on his nape and in his hair, but gentle, touching him sweetly, like the day he cut himself whilst cooking and Brienne had to deal with his anger and the bloody mess his hand had become. That's quite a lot to swallow, with her being so annoyingly close and petulant.

“It was a stupid idea,” she goes on, melancholic and boring. “The truth is I'm not good at writing this sort of things. Angst is my jam. About fluff or, Gods, smut, I rely only on book and on Ygritte and Osha's adventures.”

“And on porn, recently,” he growls, rolling to set again his eyes on her. It's a low blow but the wench has been asking for it loud enough. “Tell me, why is it so important to you to scribble about your beloved freak making out with his beauty? He should put on his armor and ride away from her, take it for granted.”

He must admit she takes punches very well, thanks to Jaime's constant training. At the first days of their weird relationship, she'd only glared at him, flushed and speechless, now she's probably reddening but she hasn't lost the will of arguing. “I don't mind if you consider me a mediocre writer, mister Lannister. I am perfectly aware of being an awful writer, so it's fine. I don't want rewards, I just want to make a gift to the amazing writer who has been selected as my prompter and I just want them to be happy as any other fan, because they love each other and they've suffered...”

“Humph. _He_ has suffered and because of _her_. Your lovely Rohanne never stops teasing him, _you're too tall, ser, too clumsy, too stupid, you can't even dress or talk properly_ , I can almost hear her.” Jaime braces on the elbows, until he gets seated, hoping the ease the sensations that are overwhelming him. Even his stomach has begun throbbing, like some demon is twisting it, and he'd want to climb down the bed and put an end to that illogical discussion, but he's far from being sure his legs would bear his weight. He's sure only of a thing. “She's just shit, Brienne, she will just takes advantage of her being richer and more experienced, Dunk is better than her and deserves better and you're a fool to think otherwise. The quicker he leaves her and her lavish flat, the better for him.”

The wench opens her mouth just to close it. She's really hideous, sitting cross-legged, the moon kissing her hair.

“Jaime?” feather-lighted, her hand runs on his chest, where it hurts, it hurts. “Are you well?” A dozen quips, a dozen ways to get rid of her. It's going to be easy, it has always been easy, and it's the right thing to do. “Jaime?”

“Wench, stop it”, he roars. “Kill me, curse me or kiss me but stop it. Stop being that blind.”

She catches in her breath, retreating the hand and Jaime closes his eyes, waiting for being thrown out of the bed, finally. He's not ready to feel the brush of her fingers on the stumble already growing on his jaw, or her lips on his. Her first kiss is just an attempt, a peck, her second is different. He can sense any scratch on those swollen lips and also a vague taste of blood when the kiss deepens. Her fingers dig in his neck, her other hand tugs at his shirt, frantic, proving all Brienne's need. He can recognize that hunger too well, because it's a year he's starving.

For her, and her only.

Jaime's no more able to think. He just lives, praying not to wake up this time, his hands already struggling with the buttons of his jeans and with the zip of the stupid, electric pajamas while his tongue parries hers.

The thrice damned zip.

Paradoxically, she's less awkward than him and gets to free him from the shirt, unzip her pajamas, and part from him when he's still hesitant about opening his eyes. Now he opens them. He wants to see her, and there she is, flushed and freckled, with the softest lips and eyes so bright he could snuggle in their light forever. But only after he has fucked her senseless.

“You're beautiful,” she murmurs, her breaths short and irregular as he follows the line of her shoulders, helping the pajamas to slid till her waist. Brienne's naked under it, her skin is pale, her tits are small but perfect. Perfect for being touched, kissed, worshiped.

“You're the most amazing creature I've ever seen,” Jaime replies, hoarse, and he's not lying. His eyes drink any part of her, lingering on her belly, on the promise made by her navel - and it's inebriating. He wants to see more, he wants to undress her completely and trace a path of kisses and nips from her earlobe till her pinkie, but before that, he pulls and kicks his pants and his damp underpants off, because he can't stand the contact with their fabric an instant more.

His cock's so hard that it almost seems a sword. Maybe she sees it the same way, and feels it like a threat. Jaime swallows, beginning to understand there's something the wench has tried to tell him but he hasn't grasped because he's always too Jaime-centric, when her fingers ball into a nervous fist, around the hems of the sleepwear.

“I'm not, I'm ugly, I-I...”, she mumbles, but that's not true, there's Jaime, his tensed jaw and his entire body to witness it.

 _Look at me_ , he would yell, as she's not looking at him anymore. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. If only he were a bit better with words.

He rests his forehead on her forehead, forcing his hands to rest in turn. He does nothing to cover himself, he simply waits, until she seems less uncomfortable with his bold nudity, with the small contact of their brows. “Brienne, I want you so much, I don't even remember how it was living without you next to me, desiring you all the time,” he pauses, afraid, shifting a bit on the intoxicating sheets to look into her eyes, when she gingerly grabs his wrist, her thumb stroking the scar on his palm. It's hard not to devour her lips again, it's harder not to glimpse at the hideous microfleece, slowly sagging on the mattress. “But I'll never raise a finger on you, if you don't want me to, trust me.”

“I do. I trust you.” When her smile reaches her eyes that way, she glows and she's really beautiful, even if she'll never believe it, to Jaime's agony. “And I want you to touch me.”

“Define the word touch.” He almost screams, following her free hand moving towards his crotch, his dick already twitching in expectation. The reality is better than imagination, for once. Brienne's a bit uncertain but so good, and he can teach her, but not now. He craves for something more than a hand-job or a blow- job. He wants to please her, to hear her squeak and sigh as he's buried in her.

“Anything, anything you'd like,” she finally says, driving him nuts. “I want you to be the one.”

Fuck, Jaime's terrified now, but he's even more excited, if possible. He can't control himself no more, his mouth crashing on hers, teeth and lips and tongue, rougher than he wants to be, but the wench's not escaping. She bites him, and scratches his neck, letting out a primordial sound that makes Jaime fear he's not going to last long, when he pushes her with no much care against the mattress and throws the fucking pajamas on the floor.

What Jaime reads in Brienne's eyes now is more than what he has ever prayed for, and her legs are unnaturally long on the white sheets, her thighs are a majestic temple of muscles and surprising softness, whilst her pube is pale blond and glimmering in a glorious way. He'd love discover if she may scream as he licks and sucks her cunt, but he's too eager to taste her tits and to get inside her.

He almost comes, as his mouth closes on one of those tiny, pointed nipples of hers, he struggles not to lose completely his lucidity and ravish her when two of his fingers penetrates deep in her wetness and Brienne calls out his name, twice, thrice, her hands discovering part of his body he didn't recall to have. She's practically begging as he keeps on rubbing and teasing with circulars movements her clit, his cock rocking and aching against her hip because Jaime has been waiting for too long, too long. He runs his tongue up his wench's body, leaving a wet path and a crimson mark on the white spot between the shoulder and the neck, where he has felt the need of nip and suck.

“I can't see to get inside you,” he grunts, when he wants only to sound sweet and reassuring. “Only, we need a condom.”

“The nightstand. On the left, the first drawer”, Brienne pants, her fingers stopping to stroke the bare, sweated skin of his back. He can't help but gapes at her, legs spread, eyes sparkling. He could die now and die happy. “Jaime, fuck. Be quicker.”

An order. A plea. He likes it, whatever it is and he laughs as a fool when finds himself with a drawer in his hand. Agile as a kitten, Brienne picks up a fuchsia box, still wrapped in plastic, and the drawer is immediately forgotten on the bedside rug. She's already opening a small silvery bag, shivering, more for the thrill than for other reasons, or so Jaime hopes.

“We can do it together, Brie,” he proposes, smug, towering on her since he's on his knees and she's already lying on her back.

The wench nods, a firm, longing nod, and let him guide her hand and roll the condom on his cock, and then it's her to claim him, and guide his cock at her entrance. He kisses her, one more kiss which turns into a gasp when he slides into her, a single, strong thrust because he has read somewhere it would hurt the less. Brienne lets out a pained, strangled groan, and Jaime plants a dozen apologetical kisses on her breast - but then she draws him closer, urging him to go on, her thighs rocking in unison with his, and he forgets to be slow, to be gentle. The sensation of her warmth, closing around him, flows in Jaime's wrists, in his temples, in all his veins, in a thousand waves, and Jaime thrusts and keeps thrusting into her, incredibly excited by the smell, by the sounds coming from her, realizing he's been chanting her name in a sort of animal spell only when he finishes, melting into her with a chocked roar - far too soon, the sweat already cooling on the muscles of his back as he wonders if Brienne has come with him or not.

“Wench, sweet wench of mine,” he murmurs, yielding to the softness in her eyes, rolling off of from her with the utmost reluctance, only because he knows he can't waste the latex protection. He's still quivering as a leaf and his wench is quivering, too, so he moves to gets the sheets and cover her. His hand is somehow still entwined with hers, though, so she moves with him. Together. He grins, or maybe he was already grinning. Jaime's too happy, confused, and sleepiness is crawling up his spine, weakening the miserable remnants of his strength. They'd both need a shower, or better, a bath, but they have time. On the morrow, and Jaime promises to himself to eat her out before any shower or bath, with the shutters wide open to oblige the sun to stop and pay homage to his wench and her endless body.

“You make me feel so good, Jaime,” are the last words he can hear. He doesn't really know how he can interpret them, if he has been really good. Probably Brienne'll never tell him, since she cares about him. She cares, yes, his heart skips a beat or two at the possibility she loves him as he loves her. The sheets wrap them like a wedding clock, she has curled against his dead-tired body, the head on his chest so he can breathe the smell of her shampoo, mixed to the smell of sex filling the bedroom. Their bedroom.

Jaime's hand lies at the small of her back, the other one is her fingers' grateful prisoner - he tries a last smile, before dancing with her into sleep.

***

The sloth pajamas. Just think them on a girl of over 6 feet of sweetness and clumsiness

***

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for having found the time to stop and read so far. I own nothing but the mistakes, so edit warnings and comments are more than welcome. 
> 
> About Jaime's final doubts about his 'performance', well, I think he's just in the loop "only the best for my wench" but it's only my personal opinion, and I have no intention to wake up Brienne when she's sleeping in her love's arms only to satisfy my curiosity ;)


End file.
